


nothing like poetry

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Denial of Feelings, F/F, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:00:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27422350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: Jack thinks of poetry as pain, as want, as something raw and measured in equal parts. In that sense, a scream is a poem. Rage is a poem.Miranda isnothinglike poetry.
Relationships: Jack | Subject Zero/Miranda Lawson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 45
Collections: Femdom Exchange 2020





	nothing like poetry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ziskandra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziskandra/gifts).



> Many thanks to Morris and Hobbitdragon for taking the time to read and beta!

Jack thinks of poetry as pain, as want, as something raw and measured in equal parts. In that sense, a scream is a poem. Rage is a poem.

Miranda is _nothing_ like poetry.

Miranda thrashes under Jack’s hands, palms twisted in the sheets and her body slick with sweat, spit, and other fluids. The high neck of her bodysuit is peeled down, her neck ringed in bruises and lipstick as Jack crushes her into the mattress. Compress something hard enough, and you’ll get a diamond. Or a black hole. _Something_ , irrevocably changed and distinct from what came before.

But for now, with Jack’s knee wedged between Miranda’s thighs, with Jack’s hands wrapped over Miranda’s wrists, Miranda is _not_ coming.

“Jack,” Miranda says, and just that one syllable is like rose petals on velvet, all luxurious and shit. It makes Jack want to rip Miranda apart with her bare hands. “You goddamn _savage._ Let me come, already.”

“No way, princess,” Jack growls. She lowers her head, biting Miranda’s ear and getting a mouthful of hair in the bargain. It smells of honey and vanilla, some expensive conditioner that probably costs more than Jack’s entire wardrobe. Jack spits it out. “You don’t _deserve_ to come.”

Miranda snorts. Jack grinds down with her knee, and Miranda’s eyes open wide with a flutter of shock. “Are orgasms a meritocracy, then?” she asks. A little breathless, but still entirely too composed for Jack’s liking.

Jack knows very well what a meritocracy is, but she scowls anyway. If she’s a goddamn _savage_ , she’ll play the part. “Meri-what now?”

“I hate when you play stupid, Jack.” Miranda says it with fondness, an exasperated sigh. As if she knows _anything_ about Jack. Miranda smiles, then rolls her hips, which might be another attempt to rut on Jack’s leg. But there’s a flex in her spine, a ripple of tension that warns Jack that Miranda’s about to throw her, so Jack slams down with a crackle of biotics.

“Fuck you,” says Jack. There’s no heat in it; obscenity is just a form of punctuation. “You come when I say you can, and not before.”

Miranda groans, falling limp. Jack knows better than to think it’s surrender, not when Miranda’s smiling so contentedly. This is something Miranda wanted all along, even if they had to fight their way to get here.

Miranda would look _good_ in rope, Jack thinks. Or hilariously tawdry in handcuffs, the cheap Velcro type with pink fur. Jack won’t bring either of them, though—that would mean _planning_ , which would take away this plausible deniability they have going on. It would make it seem like Jack _expects_ something out of this string of one-night stands beyond good wine and mediocre pussy.

Well. Maybe not mediocre. Miranda’s actually... not bad, or Jack wouldn’t risk making a habit of this.

Definitely not in the top ten though.

Just thinking this gives Jack a headache, so she distracts herself by undoing the front panel of Miranda’s bodysuit. Jack has to sit up for this, slinging her leg across Miranda’s hips and bearing down with what weight she has, just to feel like she’s in control. Jack’s boots track dirt all over Miranda’s silk sheets, but Miranda gives a knowing smile, as if she knows very well that she still makes Jack feel like a scrawny teenager. Jack bares her teeth in response. But _hello_ , Miranda still has great tits, and she’s wearing a ridiculously lacy bra—no, not bra, _bralette_ , Miranda had given Jack a mind-numbing lecture on the difference when Jack first made that mistake—that looks more like confectionery than underwear, so Jack takes her time admiring them.

Jack knows better than to think that Miranda’s wearing nice lingerie for _Jack_ , not when Miranda loves nice things in general, but it’s still a pleasant surprise as Jack slides a finger under the band and realizes something.

“Front clasp?” Jack means it as a statement, not a question, but something lilts her syllables upwards.

Miranda gives a boneless shrug, as if it’s irrelevant. “After the way you pawed at me last time, I figured this would be more expedient.”

“Aw shit.” Jack sighs, undoing the clasp and squeezing Miranda’s breast in the cup of her palm. Miranda’s so goddamn pale that her veins show blue beneath the skin, like an expensive flower. Jack likes these naked parts of Miranda, all the little marks and creases that aren't flaws, but reminders that beneath all the genetic modifications and ex-Cerberus leanings, Miranda’s a _person_. Real, not airbrushed. “You _do_ care," Jack murmurs, as much surprise as… something.

“I’ll try not to make a habit of it.” Miranda's smile deepens as she says it, and it crinkles the skin around her eyes, giving Jack a hint of the wrinkles that Miranda might develop one day. It’s inexplicably hot, thinking about Miranda as an old woman.

Jack snorts, covering that unexpected fondness with more bluster. “Yeah, well—see that you don’t.”

Poetry is precise and specific, literature at its most compressed.

Miranda is _nothing_ like poetry.

But—maybe—Jack will consider learning a more metered verse.


End file.
